


I promise you (it'll all make sense again)

by JBS_Forever



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Post-Endgame, and like three lines of humor to make it appear like I'm not a total monster, more characters to come but I don't wanna spam the tags, peter gets a new power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 04:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18403160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: They come back different after the war. Peter comes back different.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Re-upload because I had an anxiety-induced meltdown and deleted my account (and regretted it almost immediately, but it was too late to save). Thank you to everyone who reached out to me to offer support and encouragement. You guys are amazing. This is a new account with the same name, so if you'd still like to follow me, this will be the place. I'm working on re-uploading my stories. I hope you'll stick with me while I get everything back to normal <3 Thanks for all the support!

They come back different after the war – but the point, Tony reminds him, is they _come back._ They come back and life goes on, just like that, like nothing happened, like it's a normal thing and that's what you do, you get up, you keep living. _Yay. Hooray._ All is good.

They come back different, but some things don't change, and Peter is on his way to school when he sees a robbery at the 7-Eleven down the street. Like a reflex, he has his mask on before they make it out of the shop.

“Little superheroing before breakfast,” he says. “Great way to start the day.”

The robbers burst through the front doors, black ski masks over their faces, arms full of beer cans and snacks and small bags of cash. One of them spots Peter approaching and says, “Shit, it's that spidey kid.”

“What? I'm not a kid,” Peter says in his own defense. He clears his throat and lowers his voice, tries again. “I mean, _I'm not a kid_.”

The robber pauses only long enough to let Peter know he isn't fooled.

"Would you like me to activate interrogation mode?" Karen asks.

"I told you never again, Karen. Not after last time. Nope. No thanks."

"Go, dude, go!" The robber yells. At the curb, a car is idling, waiting to aid in escape. Peter shoots a web and catches the first guy's arm.

“Nuh-uh,” Peter says, webbing him to the wall. “You think I'm not up for a car chase? Because I'm totally up for a car chase. Karen, keep track of them for me, will you? Get the license plate number.”

“On it,” Karen says.

Peter looks past the flashing colors on his viewfinder as the car speeds down the road, weaving between vehicles that honk loudly in response. Swears are spewed out open windows. Peter aims a web and takes off running to get momentum, yanking himself up. He's barely off the ground when he sees her – a little girl, standing in the middle of a crosswalk, right in his path.

“Shit!” There's no time to stop. He fires a web with his left hand to divert his direction, but his equilibrium is off, he's moving too quick. He closes his eyes and braces for impact – only it doesn't come in the way he expects. He hears the whoosh of air, feels it rustle the fabric of his sweatshirt, and then, instead of colliding into a small body, he's colliding into a stop sign, metal screeching and snapping at the force. He hits the ground and rolls a few feet. His breath sticks in his lungs.

“Ow,” he mumbles into the concrete. “Irony hurts.”

“Christ,” someone says. “Are you okay, Spidey?”

He pushes himself up on his hands and searches for the little girl in the growing crowd. She's there, staring at him, in the exact same place she was before. Peter should have hit her, but he didn't.

“Hey, are you –” he starts, and trails off when she flickers, fading in and out like an old film before settling again. “Oh.”

Across the street, the man with the dark hair who has been following Peter for two weeks gives him a sympathetic smile. Peter deflates, irritated.

“ _Oh._ ” He gets it now.

“Spider-Man, you're blocking the road!”

“Dude, you all right? That was a hell of a hit.”

“Come on, I'm gonna miss my meeting!”

Peter drags himself up and waves to the on-lookers. “My bad, my bad. Carry on, citizens!”

“Then move the hell out of the way, dumbass!”

He does, choosing to walk instead of swing, and stumbles his way through the busy sidewalk until he can get somewhere no one will see. Karen sends him a picture of the license plate. The car is too far away for Peter to locate now.

“Send that to the police, Karen. And any footage you got of their cheap get-ups.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Thanks.” He peels his mask off and shoves it into his pocket.

The little girl, still in the same spot, watches when he reemerges as himself again. He ignores her, lets out a frustrated noise at the man with the dark hair leaning against the wall ahead of him.

“Good morning,” the man says, falling into step beside Peter. ”Where are we going?”

“ _We're_ not going anywhere,” Peter says. “ _I'm_ going to school. Solo. Just me.”

“You seem irritated. Trouble sleeping again? Or do you tend to collide into things often?”

Peter pulls on his backpack strap, smiles at the lady who passes by him in the opposite direction and waits until she's out of earshot before he scowls and says, to the man, “You would know. And speaking of, why were you in my apartment this morning? We had a deal, remember? You're not supposed to just … be there.”

“You brought me there.”

“I was asleep.”

“I know.” An older woman nearly bumps into the man. They sidestep each other, giving curt nods. Peter keeps his gaze forward and clenches his jaw tight. “Did you know you snore? You might want to get that checked out. Could be a sinus issue.”

“Yeah, I'll get right on that.”

The man turns to look over his shoulder. “There's more today,” he says softly, as if Peter can't tell, as Peter can't _see_ them. “You're tired.”

And here's where Peter came back different. He was whole, yes, ten fingers and ten toes, complete, physically, but his brain has been telling him for every second since then what isn't right. The man next to him, the little girl he swung through, the couple behind him – none of them are alive. They can see each other, but no one except Peter can see _them._ For some reason he can't figure out, when he came back to life, he came back with a new ability.

“I'm fine,” he says.

The man frowns. “Then why are you conjuring more? It only happens when you're tired.”

“Okay, look.” Peter stops a block away from the subway entrance and ducks into the space between two buildings. The man follows him. He's got nearly two inches on Peter, and the burgundy waistcoat and white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows make Peter feel consistently under-dressed. The vintage essence and the faint trace of accent would almost be cool if Peter wasn't so annoyed by his near-constant presence. He knew exactly who this man was long before he introduced himself.

“I'm going to headquarters after school,” Peter says. “So just hang out until then, all right? Go do – I dunno, ghost stuff.”

“What does 'ghost stuff' entail?”

“You're the one who's dead. You figure it out.”

“A little harsh, my friend,” the man says. “We'll work on compassion later, shall we?”

Peter sighs. “Sorry. I'm gonna be late. Just stay here, okay? Don't follow me. Please.”

“Whatever you want, pal,” the man says, and Peter hurries off to catch his train, well aware this isn't the end of their conversation. It never is.

He rubs his sore chest and counts each of his breaths.

_One, two, three._

\- - -

There are some ghosts you can't get rid of. Peter can't always see them, but they're always there. It's like this: an emptiness in his stomach, this crevice, this unimaginable weight, heavy and light at the same time. Some days Peter wakes up and he's not sure if he's alive or not. Some days he wakes up and he wonders if _he's_ the ghost.

Today, he sits in the cafeteria with Ned and feels his pulse under the surface of his skin.

Ned says, “Do you think you could bring back Hitler?”

“Why would I want to bring back Hitler?”

“You know, to tell him he was a jerk.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. The only person who knows about his new ability is Ned, and that wasn't by choice. Peter spent the night at Ned's house not long after it first started, and Ned's grandma appeared, angry and rambling in another language, and Peter was scared and so desperate to make her stop, to make her go away, that he spilled everything to Ned so they could figure out what her ghost wanted.

“Is he here again?” Ned asks.

“He's _always_ here,” Peter says, rubbing his temples. To prove this, the man salutes him from where he's stationed behind the salad bar.

“God, this is gonna be so cool,” Ned says. Peter glares when he chuckles, and Ned passes him his pudding cup to make amends. “You're seeing Mr. Stark today?”

“Yeah. Happy is picking me up later.”

“Does it ever stop being amazing that you're an Avenger? Never mind, don't answer that. It never stops.” Ned leans forward, the heel of his hand pressed to his chin, his elbow on the table. “Man, you're the coolest person here and nobody knows. You get to hang out with Tony Freaking Stark. And Black Widow! And Iron Patriot! And –”

“ _Ned,_ ” Peter whispers. “Dude. We're in public.”

“Eh.” Ned brushes him off, but he spares a glance to make sure there are no eavesdroppers. “Not like anyone would believe me anyway. It's too crazy. Your life is crazy. I love it.”

“Yeah? Well, you can have it.”

“Okay. Hook me up.”

Peter snorts out a laugh. The man meets his gaze. Peter says, “Trust me, once I figure out how to do that, you'll be the first to know.”

Ned beams and shoves fries into his mouth.

\- - -

“Just sit still and be quiet,” Peter says as they slide into the backseat of Happy's car.

“You're in quite the mood today, aren't you? Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home and sleep?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Peter hisses.

Happy adjusts his rear-view mirror and eyes him in the reflection. “Who are you talking to?”

“Uh, no one,” Peter says. “Just myself.”

“You could tell him I'm here,” the man offers. Peter silences him with a sharp look.

“Whatever,” says Happy. The engine rumbles to life, low and soothing. Frank Sinatra plays over the speakers. Happy has been on an old-school music kick as of late, and while Peter isn't bothered either way, the man always enjoys the song selections more than they do. If Happy knew who was sitting beside Peter, he'd probably crash the car. By accident, on purpose. Peter wouldn't exactly blame him.

He tilts his aching head against the door and drifts to the sound of humming.

A hand on his shoulder wakes him. The ghosts can't touch him, just like Peter can't touch _them_ , but it startles him nonetheless, makes him throw a clumsy arm out in lethargic defense. He meets no resistance.

“Jeez, kid, thanks for the warm welcome.”

Peter blinks. Tony is leaning toward him from the other side of the car where he has opened the door Peter didn't fall asleep on, one knee propped on the seat, his hand gripping the passenger headrest.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Last time I checked,” Tony says. “You all right?”

Peter waits a moment to make sure Tony doesn't disappear.

(And here's where they both came back different, something quiet between them, something bloody and unbearable. War and death and everything separating the two. Peter spends as much time convincing himself Tony is real as he does anything else.)

He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out onto the sidewalk. The man is standing beside Happy, and Tony comes around to meet Peter.

“Well,” he says, leading them all into the lobby. “Whatever _that was_ aside, how's the suit treating you?”

“Good,” Peter says. “It's good. All good.”

“That's a lot of goods.” They pause outside the elevator. Happy scans his keycard and then checks his phone, moving back.

“You gotta use your badge,” he says. “It's the rules. Quit making me use mine.”

“Would you believe I lost it?” Tony asks.

“You own this place. I'm pretty sure the doors actually open for you without you doing anything and you just take pleasure making me do it for you.”

“You would not be wrong.” They step into the lift, and Tony waggles his eyebrows at Happy and closes the door on him, twirling his fingers in goodbye. Peter sees Happy roll his eyes before he's gone.

“Sorry you had to witness that,” Tony says. “Lover's spat. You know how it goes.”

“Wow,” the man mutters.

Peter would elbow him if it wouldn't go through his torso.

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says. “Uh, how's Pepper? How's the baby?”

“Still kicking away. Growing all the time too. They're both healthy and right on track.”

“That's good,” Peter says. “I'm glad.”

“Yeah, I can tell by all the times you've said 'good' in the last two minutes. You sure you're all right, kid?”

The elevator drops them off at the lower level of the basement. Peter has finally gotten comfortable being here, has finally gotten used to the lights and the smells and the researches bustling around. This, though, is the first time he's ever brought the man here, and Peter watches him from the corner of his vision as he takes in all the equipment they pass, as he takes in Tony too.

“Yeah, I'm –”

“Don't say 'good,'” the man says, distracted.

“– peachy.”

Tony snorts. “Nice save.” He types in the passcode outside the lab and motions Peter forward. “Go in and get started. I gotta steal some supplies from the other lab.”

“Is it stealing if you own them?”

“Do we really own anything in this life?” Tony asks. He slinks off down the hall before Peter can answer, and Peter takes the moment alone to hurry into the room.

“Okay,” he says, spinning to face the man. “I got you here like I said I would. So figure out what you need to do. But don't forget we have a deal.”

Impressed and amused, a permanent image of twenty-five years old, decades younger than the mural painted on the wall in Midtown High to commemorate him, the man – Howard Stark – says, “Whatever you say, pal.”

(There are some ghosts you can't get rid of. Here's where he came back different and hasn't moved on.)

Howard smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm obsessed with The Umbrella Academy and it wouldn't be right to not credit part of my inspiration for this story from that show. I love the relationship between Klaus and Ben, so Peter and Howard kind of stemmed from that.


	2. Chapter 2

It was sunny the day the world ended, and it's sunny today as Peter sits at the blacktop and tracks Howard moving around the lab.

It's one part interest, one part distraction. Tony is a warm and solid figure beside him, but Peter fidgets with his pen, this low-boil of dread inside him begging to be somewhere else. He's been uncomfortable around Tony a lot lately, because there's only so comfortable you can be when you've died in someone's arms, and there's only so comfortable you can be when you know said someone is keeping secrets from you.

Tony lifts a vial and clicks his tongue. “You really came up with this by accident?”

“Uh huh,” Peter says, darting a glance toward Howard. “Kind of, yeah. I mixed up some chemicals in class one day and ended up with the base of it. After the whole Spider-Man thing started, I just played with other stuff to make it stickier.”

“Stickier,” Tony repeats. “The tensile strength of your webs is insane and you made it from  _101 Science Experiments for Kids_. Jesus.”

“Hey, those experiments are for everyone.”

“That was a compliment, kid. Learn to read between the lines.”

“Oh.”

Howard's snort draws Peter's attention. "You know what they say about sarcasm being a metric for potential," he mutters.

There's a strange fondness in his expression, sincere and out of place, and the only thing Peter can think of is Tony on the phone saying, “ _My dad never really gave me a lot of support and I'm just trying to break the cycle of shame._ ” Peter is looking for reasons to be angry. He's analyzing everything Howard does for something that could be offensive and he's wondering if hating Howard will make him go away, will make all this go away. The tension and the secrets and this new ability. He's wondering if hating Howard will make him stop hating himself.

In the corner, one of Tony's robots knocks a jar off a shelf.

“Dum-E,” Tony says. “Just because I rebuilt you doesn't mean I won't donate you. That threat still stands. You know what you did. You're on indefinite time-out.”

Dum-E makes a whirring sound like a whine. The robot's long arm is in motion, and Peter realizes with a stunned sort of surprise that it's not a movement of shame or random design – it's following Howard around the room.

Peter nearly snaps his pen in half. “Can that – can it  _see you_?”

“What? Dum-E?” Tony asks, the same time Howard spins around.

“No,” Howard says. He hesitates, unsure. “It's not possible.” But it must be, because when Howard puts it to the test by crossing his way to the window, Dum-E mirrors his path step-by-step.

“Holy shit,” says Peter.

Tony hums a little under his breath. “Make a kid a million dollar suit to fight crime in and he's still impressed by a robot. Hey, Dum-E, what did I say? Clean that up and get back in the corner.”

Howard lifts a hand as if to pat Dum-E and then folds his fingers into his palm, his fist dropping back to his side. Dum-E whines again. In his shock, Peter missed Tony's explanation of how the robot can sense people, but he's positive nothing in there could explain how it's aware of a ghost.

Amazement dissolves back into irritation just as fast it comes. They're wasting time, and Howard has spent most of the last hour staring at Tony and not getting anything done.

Peter clears his throat and says, “Guess we should get back to work.  _All_  of us.”

“Yeah, Dum-E," Tony says. “Get to work. Kid's orders.”

“No, that's not – I didn't mean –” Peter sighs. “Never mind.”

Tony swirls the solution in the vial and passes it to Peter, trading him for the pen. He scribbles down a note on the pad where they've been listing measurements.  _Carbon tetrachloride_ _,_ he writes.

“Interesting. So a ring closing reaction? How long do you heat it after you add the activator?”

“A day," says Peter. "Then I crystallize it.”

“Huh," Tony says. "You hear that? Sounds like M.I.T yelling your name. You say the word and I'll pull some strings.”

Peter doesn't acknowledge the statement. College is a world away, a distant thought at the back of his mind, and right now he's glancing at Howard again and Howard still isn't moving.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Thinking,” Howard says.

Tony arches an eyebrow. “Keeping track of our chemicals so we don't blow up the building. What's with you today?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Peter threads his hands through his hair. He takes a moment to breathe.

 _One, two, three_.

“Kid?”

“Yeah, sorry. I'm just –” But what is he? Not Peter anymore, not entirely, but not a stranger either. He's angry, but why? He sees ghosts, but why? He's here, alive, but why?

What is he?

Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Do you still think about it?” which is the dumbest thing he can say. He knows Tony does. He knows Tony never stops. They don't talk about it, sure, but that doesn't mean Peter can't tell.

He feels Howard's eyes on him. Tony's shoulders go tense.

“I'm sorry,” Peter says again. “I'm–"

“Quit it, kid.” That comes from Howard, and Peter doesn't care that it does, just that someone makes him shut up.

Tony rubs his forehead. “It's fine.”

He says this, but Peter remembers the way his hands shook when he folded them around Peter's arms to make sure he really came back. He says this, but Peter remembers the shattered stars in his eyes, watery and dim, the anguished look of someone who watched his world burn and built it again from the ashes.

They're both fighting invisible wars.

They work in silence for the next twenty minutes, the occasional one-word request the only thing between them aside from the bubbling liquid of Peter's web formula. He didn't need to come here to work on this, but it was the only way he could think to get Howard where he needed to be. He's starting to regret it now.

Finally, when the tension proliferates thick enough, Tony caps a bottle and stretches out his spine. “Oh, look at that. It's time for me to fake a phone call,” he says. “It's getting late. You should probably head home. We'll pick it up this weekend, yeah?”

Peter bites his lip. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Mr. Stark, I –”

“Try to avoid Pepper on your way out. She's been craving some pretty disgusting things the last few days. Hormones and all that. Could have done without the peanut butter and tuna sandwich though. The smell still haunts me.”

“Uh –”

“Anyway, Happy will drive you back," Tony says. "And do me a favor. While you're out doing your teenage vigilante thing, sticking it to the man and all that, consider not crashing into anymore stop signs. The irony's not lost on me, but neither is the cost of property damage.”

Peter flushes, hot all over. “Um, sure. Okay. Sorry."

Howard glances between the two of them, his mouth twisted in disappointment.

Invisible wars. Tony hasn't told Peter a lot about what happened while Peter was gone, but then again, Peter hasn't told Tony a lot about what happened while he was gone either.

He waits in the lobby.

It's 7:24 p.m.

\- - -

( _Why aren't you happy?_ Peter wonders.  _Why aren't you happy?_

 _Why aren't_ I _happy?_

Peter wonders.)

\- - -

The end of the world leaves a bitter resonance behind. It kneels down like heavy snow, collapses, exhausted and weary, so hard that once it's gone – even though very few people even remember it at all – it hangs in the air.

Peter only knows the half of the universe that disappeared are having nightmares because he has them too, and there's this talk of it on the news and online about a few strangers sharing the same dream, and then more strangers sharing it all over the world, and maybe there's something in the air, scientists theorize, some kind of toxin creating weird side effects.

Strange, this thing, they say. A paradigm-challenging phenomenon. They can't find evidence to disprove what's occurring.

Peter has the normal dreams like they do, and then he has the other dreams. The ones with the voices shouting his name, crying out for him, blood red like paint thrown carelessly over the floor. There was so much of it, so much, and Peter can taste it on his tongue as they beg for help. Dead. Gone. Peter can't save them.

He wakes up panting.

“ _Peter!_ ” they cry.

“ _Peter!_ ”

“ _Peter, help us!_ ”

He shoves his hands over his ears. “No, no, no, no, no,” he says, eyes squeezed closed. “Go away. Please. Please go away.”

“Peter.” This voice is closer, calmer. Peter hates that he recognizes it. He hates even more that it comforts him.

“Breathe,” Howard says. “There's no one else here. It's just us.”

“They're always here,” Peter says. “They never go away. They never leave.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

\- - -

“I'm sorry,” Peter says in the morning.

“Pal, you don't have to apologize to me. I don't want to be here any more than you want me here.”

Peter is sorry for that too.

\- - -

He's sitting on the fire escape of a building on Queens Boulevard between 44th and 45th, and he's thinking about how the last time he was here he was talking into the empty static of Happy's voicemail and telling him about a lady buying him a churro. There are fewer check-in calls these days.

He can see the bodega with its new walls and the bank with its new glass, and everyone walks past it like they don't remember when it was nothing but ashes, when _they_ were nothing but ashes, and that burning sensation of dread tickles the back of his throat.

Beside him, arms folded on the railing, Howard says, “We need a plan B.”

“We should probably start with a plan A.”

“We did that. Going to Avengers' Headquarters was the plan.”

“Yeah, but you did absolutely nothing,” Peter says. “Remember? We left and we're still in the exact same spot.”

Howard gazes at the horizon. “Maybe not.”

“Did you come up with something?”

“Not yet.”

Peter huffs. He reaches for the plastic bag on the ground and rolls the bottom of his mask up to his nose. “Am I supposed to, like, lead you into the light? Help you with unfinished business and then send you off to the other side? Because I'm a superhero, not a medium. I didn't even believe in ghosts until all this.”

“That's because ghosts aren't real,” Howard says, so seriously that it gets an annoyed smile from Peter.

“Whatever.”

“I don't have all the answers. I just know there's something I have to do. I can feel it.”

“How do you know it has to do with Mr. Stark?”

“I just do.”

Peter unwraps his sandwich and bites off a large chunk to give him something else to do besides talking. Howard doesn't mind the silence. He watches the sun until it disappears.

\- - -

On the news, they interview a doctor who says multiple people are complaining of headaches and overwhelming feelings of distress. The doctor warns of mass hysteria spreading among the city. He tells everyone to remain calm and not feed off the panic.

Peter thinks he's stupid for sharing the information in the first place.

He thinks,  _but at least you know how I feel_.

\- - -

“The answer is C," says a voice next to his ear.

Peter jumps and coughs to cover his surprise. He's in the middle of a Chemistry test and he told Howard not to bother him, made him swear he wouldn't show up, but Peter is beginning to notice there are a lot of things he can't trust about Howard.

He makes sure his teacher isn't looking and writes a hasty  _LEAVE_  on the side of his paper, angling it for Howard to see.

“You summoned me, my friend,” Howard says. “I was doing my best to keep my end of the bargain.”

Peter grinds his teeth together and digs his pencil in hard.  _DON'T CARE. GO._

Mr. Johnson's chair squeaks as he rises from behind his desk to make rounds. Peter flips to the next page and pretends to focus on the questions until he passes. He shoots another glare at Howard, this one more desperate, and Howard concedes, tipping an invisible hat and wandering out the open door.

Peter goes back to the first page and erases his words. He circles C without reading it.

After the bell rings, Ned says, “Can I get me a ghost friend to give me the answers too?”

“You can have mine,” Peter says. “I don't want him.”

Something in his words shifts Ned's amusement into concern. Ned bumps their shoulders together. “Let's get some lunch. You can have my chocolate milk if you want.”

“Thanks, Ned.”

\- - -

When they trade out books at the end of the day, emptying and filling their backpacks again, Ned tells Peter about Betty and his plan to ask her to the dance. He wants to be cliché, as John Hughes as he can get. Cute little notes and flower petals in her locker. The whole romantic deal. He says Betty likes that stuff, and Ned likes her, so it's only right.

Peter imagines how she'll respond. The simplicity of it in a time like this – the beauty of the fear of inviting a girl to a dance as if there's nothing scarier in the world than rejection – makes him feel better than he thought it would. It's nice, easy, and he's so caught up in the emotion of it that he misses Ned's segue into the next topic.

“Yeah, so anyway,” Ned says. “I'll get some books from the library about people who can talk to the dead and stuff and we'll come up with a plan.”

They head down the front steps and push through the doors. “I'm willing to try anything," Peter says.

“ _Anything_?”

“No, I take it back.”

Ned chuckles and waves goodbye, parting ways with him to meet Betty by the football field. She nods at Peter and he nods in return. Another day, he might hang out with them, but today he has plans.

He reminds Howard of such once they get on the train.

“I know,” Howard says. “I'll make myself scarce.” Peter believes him, because these meetings are the only times he can ever get Howard to leave him alone. He doesn't understand it, but he doesn't care. It's a small means of victory, whatever it is.

Howard stays in the subway to catch another train while Peter makes his way three blocks over to the coffee shop and stands outside, checking his phone while he waits. The smell of pastries sends angry growls through his stomach. He's early, but so is the person he's supposed to meet. Just like always.

He pockets his phone and pockets his guilt. Invisible wars.

Tony may have secrets, but Peter has them too.

He smiles at the approaching man. “Hey, Cap,” he says.

Steve Rogers smiles back. “Hey, Pete. You ready?”

“Yup.”

And Peter knows all about this, how to find cover to protect yourself, how to run in zigzag patterns to avoid being shot, but no one ever taught him how to win a battle against enemies you can't see. No one ever taught him what it costs to lose.

Steve's gaze lingers on a poster in the shop of a window for a forlorn second before he gestures Peter forward.

 _A HERO UNTIL THE END_ , the poster reads, red and blue letters on a white background, _REST IN PEACE, CAPTAIN AMERICA_.

(Here's where they came back different.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "why aren't you happy" line is my own way of giving a little nod to Uncertainty_Principle and her amazing story "The Third Option." She is a queen and she blows my mind with every update.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the support and for being so understanding while I get my life back together. It means a lot to me <3


End file.
